


Stokely, Herrington, 2009

by Baylor



Series: Birthright [37]
Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Alien Resistance, Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Death, Gen, Weigh It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baylor/pseuds/Baylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stokely returns to Herrington to see Casey's mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stokely, Herrington, 2009

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” John said as he watched Stokely fold clothes and slip them into her bag. “Someone else can handle it.”

“I need to do this,” Stokely said simply, and John sighed.

“At least don’t go alone,” he said. “Wait a day and I can go with you. Or we’ll get someone else to go with you.”

“John.” She zipped up the bag and took his hand in hers. “I need to do this.”

He grimaced, and his face was infinitely sad. “I know,” he said. “I just worry.”

She smiled gently, fondly, and kissed him softly. “Thank you for worrying,” she said, and then grabbed her bag and was out the door.

_____

Delilah was leaning against her car in the drive, smoking a cigarette, eyes hidden by dark glasses protecting her from the rising sun.

“You too?” Stokely asked as she walked up to her. “I’ll be back tomorrow, people.”

“Thought I’d drop you at the airport, save you the parking fees,” Delilah said, dropping her cigarette into the gravel and grinding it out with the three-inch, dangerous-looking heel of her boot. 

“You don’t need to,” Stokely said, trying to get a glimpse of Delilah’s eyes behind the shades.

“I know,” Delilah said, and got in the driver’s side. Stokely sighed, tossed her bag in the back and got in.

_____

They drove through Hardee’s for coffee on the way to the airport, the only fast food place open at that early hour in the near-empty land that Stokely now called home. Stokely sipped her coffee and watched the horizon while Delilah ignored her own cup and instead lit another cigarette.

“You staying over there?” she asked, jerking her head back at the bag.

“In Columbus,” Stokely said. “Next flight out this way isn’t until tomorrow morning.”

“That’s what you get for living in BFE,” Delilah said with a cutting smile. 

“We can’t all be fashionable New Yorkers,” Stokely said, blowing on her coffee. 

“It wouldn’t suit you anyway,” Delilah said, and then they were silent, letting coffee and cigarettes take the place of conversation. 

_____

At the drop-off curb, Delilah laid a hand on Stokely’s arm. “Have you heard anything?” she asked, and her voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. “Has anyone seen him?”

“No,” Stokely said, then reached out to take the sunglasses off her friend’s face. Delilah’s eyes were red behind them, and she smiled at Stokely, abashed. She touched a corner of one of Stokely’s own red eyes with a manicured finger.

“Del,” Stokely said with reproach. 

“Good luck,” Delilah said. “Love and kisses to everyone back home from me,” and Stokely couldn’t help but smile back at her.

_____

She made herself park the rental in the driveway, and not across the street, so that she would be forced to get straight out of the car, and not sit and stare at the house. The last time she had been inside, she had held a box of apple juice steady so that Casey could drink out of the straw while Stan had inanely rambled on about collegiate football. Casey hadn’t known a football from a birthday cake in those days.

The woman who answered the door hadn’t changed as much as Stokely would have thought. Her hair was short now, and she’d lost weight, but she still was a woman who had aged gracefully, if somewhat prematurely. 

“Mrs. Connor?” Stokely said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but—“

“Stokely, of course,” Elise Connor interrupted. “Of course, I remember. Please, come in.” And she reached out to draw Stokely in by an elbow.

“Are you here about Casey?” Mrs. Connor asked as soon as she’d shut the door. “Did you find something out?”

“Mrs. Connor,” Stokely said, but then her words stuck in her throat. She coughed awkwardly. “Maybe we should sit down.”

The living room had not changed – the same flowered upholstery and window treatments, the same knick-knacks, the same framed school photograph on the mantle. Stokely could have sworn that Mrs. Connor even brought her coffee in the same mug as the last time she’d been a guest her, nearly 10 years before. 

“Mrs. Connor,” Stokely began again, setting the coffee aside without tasting it, “I have something to tell you about Casey. I’m so very sorry to bring you this kind of news, but I thought that you deserved to know that Casey died two weeks ago.”

Mrs. Connor set her coffee down carefully and blinked at Stokely. “Oh,” she said. “Oh,” and she put a hand to her mouth. “Just then? Just two weeks ago?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stokely said. “There was an . . . accident, and Casey was injured. I wasn’t – I wasn’t there, but I understand that it all happened very quickly.”

“Two weeks ago?” Mrs. Connor said again, and she sounded bewildered. “That’s all?”

“Yes,” Stokely answered. Off all the possible reactions she had imagined, this was not one of them.

“Oh,” the older woman said. “I’m sorry, I must sound very strange. It’s just that I thought, well, I have thought for many years that he must have been gone. I thought you’d come to tell me that someone had found his body.”

“No, ma’am,” Stokely said gently. “It just happened. I’m so very sorry.”

Mrs. Connor nodded. “You were always a good friend to him,” she said. “One of the only ones. Did you – when you left the Rosado boy and stopped coming to Herrington, I thought that maybe you knew something.”

“Yes,” Stokely said. “I saw Casey a lot after that time. He was . . . better. Not the same, exactly, but better. He was happy, sometimes, I think, and there were people who cared for him. I think he would have come to see you, but he was afraid – I was afraid . . .”

“With good reason,” Mrs. Connor said, remorse written all over her face. “And I don’t know that he would have come to see me, but it is good of you to say so. It is good of you to come, Stokely.”

“I needed to tell you,” Stokely said, and Mrs. Connor looked like she understood.

“Closure is important,” she said, and then walked to the French doors that led to the dining room and opened them. “I’ve learned that much.”

The dining room had most definitely changed. The polished oak table and chairs were still there, but beside the bulky, 1980s hutch was a line of aluminum filing cabinets. Hanging over the large floral-patterned wallpaper were posterboards plastered with news clippings and photographs. The top of the dining table was all but invisible for stacks of papers. 

Stokely entered slowly, cautiously, while Mrs. Connor hugged her elbows across her chest. “I never knew these things went on,” she said as the younger woman took in the room’s contents. “I always thought I was so well-informed – 6 o’clock news every night, Dateline and 60 Minutes once a week. If people all over the nation, all over the world just disappeared without a trace, all kinds of people, in all kinds of circumstances, people like me would know about it, right? If there was anything to those crazy stories about UFOs and alien abduction, the government and the media would be warning us, investigating it, bringing it to light, wouldn’t they? These things couldn’t happen right under our noses without good, well-informed citizens knowing about them, could they?”

Stokely quickly scanned the stacks on the dining room table, resting her fingers on the cover page of a report featuring the MUFON logo. Mrs. Connor came to stand beside her and looked down at the report.

“I know that Casey wasn’t abducted by aliens,” she said, and Stokely was relieved. “Some of these stories, some of these people – you simply can’t believe it. The evidence doesn’t hold together. But for many others, it is hard to deny their claims. In many cases, alien abduction seems the logical explanation. And government complicity the final conclusion. But then,” she looked up from the report into Stokely’s face, “I probably don’t have to explain all of this to you, of all people. You’ve had the front-row seat, haven’t you, right from the start. You poor kids,” and she laid a trembling hand on Stokely’s face. “I am so, so sorry that no one believed you.”

Something unlocked in Stokely’s chest and she sucked in a great breath, her knees trembling. “Thank you,” she whispered, and Mrs. Connor smiled shakily at her.

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “Thank God for you.”

_____

The house Stokely had grown up in was a daycare center now. She sat in the car and watched as pre-school-aged children swarmed over brightly colored plastic playground equipment and squabbled in the sand box. There was no indication of where her parents had gone to.

The high school had been renovated, a large, gleaming addition drawing one’s eye away from the blocky main structure, which could only manage to look somewhat attractive, even all spruced up. Classes let out while Stokely drove by, kids pouring onto the sidewalks in clusters, cramming themselves into cars so that they could peel out amid shouts and blaring music. She half expected to spot an old GTO tearing by in a haze of tire smoke.

The Rosado house was green now, instead of yellow, and one of the trees had come down, but other than that seemed little changed. Stokely parked across the street and watched as twilight spread across the neighborhood. No lights came on, and she wondered if they still lived there. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin when someone rapped on the passenger-side window. A tall young man with curly hair was peering in at her. “Gonna come in?” he asked.

“Lord,” Stokely said, and hit the auto-locks so he could open the door. “Mattie.”

He grinned. “I’ll let you get away with that, since it’s been so long,” he said, “but that’s the only time. It’s Matthew now.”

Stokely stared at him, clutching the steering wheel fiercely.

“Are you, like, going to peel out of here in a hurry or is it safe to get in?” he asked.

“Oh, Mattie,” she said again, and then he was in the car and she had wrapped him fiercely in her arms. “Oh, kiddo,” she said, and stroked the back of his head.

“Hey, hey, watch the hair,” he joked, but he was hugging her back so hard she could feel bruises forming. 

“Look at you,” she said when they finally pulled apart and she could look him in the face. “You’re all grown up.” She could see Stan and their father in him, but also Alice Rosado, and something about his mouth that reminded her of his sister.

“Look at you,” he answered cheekily. “You’re still really hot. In fact, I think you’re hotter.”

She swatted his arm and he laughed. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I live here,” he said. “Well, for now. I just finished the Academy, and I’ve got some time off before I get assigned.”

“Academy?” Stokely asked, and Matthew nodded. 

“Quantico,” he said. “Special Agent Matthew Rosado, at your service,” and he held out his hand. She didn’t take it. 

“It’s all right,” he said quietly, his hand still extended. “I mean that, Stokes. I’m at your service.” He didn’t look away from her eyes. “Don’t freak out on me here. I’m not about to call the goon squad.”

She swallowed, and instead of shaking his hand, took it in both of hers. “No, of course not,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m not wanted for anything.”

Matthew shrugged, as if to say, maybe you are and maybe you’re not. They broke eye contact and both of them looked down the street. Two boys were riding their bikes down the middle of it and yelling good-natured insults at each other. Stokely put her hands back on the wheel.

“How are your parents?” she said finally.

“Pretty well,” Matthew answered. “Dad’s half-retired – his heart’s been a little wanky. The doctors say if he takes it easy, keeps his stress down that he should be fine.”

“Good,” Stokely said. “You should make sure he does that.”

“Yep,” Matthew said. “Kathy got married, has a little girl. She does real estate part-time.” He fiddled with a drawstring on his sweatshirt. He must have been out jogging, Stokely realized.

“Stan?” she asked.

“Remarried,” Matthew said curtly. “Two boys,” but Stokely had known that.

“What are you doing here, Stokes?” Matthew finally asked, very quietly.

“I had to come to town to do something,” she said. “I just wanted to—“ and she waved vaguely into the air even as she was suddenly aware that she was crying.

“Yeah,” Matthew said, and cleared his throat. He was studying his drawstring as though it held the answers to the universe. “Look,” he said, “look, I know it didn’t go so well with my family when you and Stan split up, but I think you should know that things look different now. I mean, they do to me, at least. There’s a lot we didn’t know back then, a lot I didn’t know.”

“And what do you know now, Matthew?” Stokely said. She kept her eyes fixed on the road.

Matthew was quiet for a minute. “Those people came to see you,” he said. “I think they wanted to help you. When we were kids.”

“What people?” Stokely asked. She had stopped crying and took a hand off the wheel to swipe at her cheeks.

“From the FBI,” Matthew said. “The two agents,” and Stokely turned her head to look at him. “Mulder and Scully,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “They wanted to help me.”

“I wish they’d had the chance,” he said. 

“So do I,” she answered, and they looked each other in the eyes again. 

“Do you have, like, some paper? A pen?” Matthew asked. “I’ve got a cell phone, only I ever answer it. It’s mine, not for work.”

Stokely reached past him to fumble in the glove compartment until she found an envelope with the rental company’s logo in the return address spot, along with a pen also bearing their logo. Matthew scrawled the number on it. Beneath it, he wrote, “Mattie.” He didn’t ask for her number. 

“Anytime,” he said as he handed it over. “For anything.”

“Yes,” she said, and then leaned over to kiss his cheek. To her surprise, he blushed. 

“Anytime, anything,” he said again as he got out of the car.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mattie,” she said, and then he was jogging across the street. He turned in the yard and waved at her before going inside.

Stokely folded the envelope carefully and slipped it into the inside pocked of her blazer. Then she started the car, and followed the familiar streets to the highway, Herrington descending into a mass of twinkling lights behind her, and then disappearing altogether.


End file.
